


The Rider's Grimoire

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:05:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of wizards called magistrates with magic books and wyrd words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Magistrate

_In the beginning, when the people of earth were young, they cried. They cried as their hands bled from tilling the field. They cried as they lost their children to wild animals. They cried as sky fell and the oceans burned. as they cried the cosmos looked down upon them and spoke "Well go on then. What do want? Use your words."_

 

 

A lone figure rode a pale horse across the desert night, a tattered and faded scarf wrapped around her mouth and brow. A gun had been holstered across one thigh. She carried a satchel on one side, and under the opposite arm, clutched tightly, was a thick, bound grimoire of brilliant green.

The desert sand had grown dark beneath the rider's path some time ago. This had been noted with cool, clinical detachment. It meant nothing, but might mean something in future. Such was the nature of most things, she found. Around the same time the sky had grown dark, too. One by one the stars had gone out as if swept away by some cosmic housemaid tidying things up, and soon after even the moon had fallen prey to this spring cleaning of the heavens. As above, so below, and the rider travelled in a veil of unyielding darkness. There was no deterrent, however. True, absolute darkness was a rare thing, and the rider had long since learned how to extract even the slightest of illumination with which to see. 

Though it had been many days and nights since the rider had set off, she carried only a single water pouch, and it had been emptied the previous day. Travelling light had been more pressing than travelling prepared, and there were many other ways to procure water in pressing times. These too were things she had long since learned.

Though the rider knew not where she were, nor her destination, the path itself was far from uncertain for her task was one of the hunt, and the madness of what they hunted might as well have been a paved and gilded road upon which to follow to those who knew what to look for. If nothing else, the rider was good at looking.

After a time, the sand gave way to hard rock, cracked and unyielding, and much more traversable footing for their horse. Steadily, too, the stars began to return. The rider looked up through the wrappings that bound her head and peered at the twinkling lights. Their initial assumption had been wrong. The refraction and the slightest hints of movement, the way they winked like a coquettish dancer, all completely wrong. The moon had not returned either. Whatever now lit up the sky were not stars. 

The rider cast her gaze back towards the horizon. As their pale horse breasted a slight hill, a river became visible only a short distance away. Roughly five days north of there, the rains fell in a mountain range, and were carried down to its foot where the river began. From there the rain was carried south, till it joined with three others and together they flooded all the way to the ocean. This the rider had concluded the previous day, when she shifted her path to this point of the river that broached closest to the trail of madness. 

Slowing to a gentle trot, the rider led her horse, named Maplehoof, to the riverbank and dismounted. Maplehoof went to drink, thirsty as (he/she? double check) was, but the rider stayed it with a hand placed upon its snout. Instead the rider went down to the water's edge herself, and took a small, slender object from her satchel; a needle, like one might use to knit wool with. She dipped the needle in the water's surface, and watched carefully the ripple that formed. Once satisfied by whatever sign she did or failed to see, the rider finally let her horse drink its fill. Maplehoof whinnied in gratitude and dipped its broad head to the water's surface. 

While their steed drank, the rider refilled her water satchel and looked around. Small blue mushrooms grew around the water's edge, lit up with just the faintest phosphorescence. She considered eating one, having not subsisted on anything but hard tack and scorpions for some time now, but the safety of such fauna lay outside her areas of expertise; beyond the fact that they weren't dangerously irradiated at least. Further down the river, however, was something far more interesting. Not far from where the rider stood, the mushrooms grew to much larger sizes, higher than the slopes and planes of the hard ground, and larger than seemed possible if they were as water dependant as they seemed, and even from such a distance it was obvious they grew not in natural randomness but in very intentional rows and columns. Someone was cultivating these mushrooms, and whatever civilization meager or otherwise had been laid there, the taint of madness led right to it. Once both rider and steed had drank their fill and rested, the pair made their way towards the settlement.

 

As the rider drew closer, she saw that the settlement was by no means meager at all. Torchlights burned either side of a high town gate, and a sturdy stone wall had been constructed of the dark rock this place lay upon. The gate lay open, and within the town was lively as if it were the middle of the day. Children cavorted in the street, vendors shouted from their stalls peddling their wares, and a group elderly sat outside a tavern of some sort, playing a domino game under lamplight. It bore no sign of the mad one, and that gave the rider reason for both hope and fear. Nonetheless, the taint's path carried straight inside, and so in the rider went. 

Once past the gates, the trail of madness grew erratic. No obvious direction stood out more than the others in such a populated area. Either the rider's quarry had spent some time there, or had yet to leave at all.

HEY YOU THERE. YEAH YOU, MUMMY-FACE UP ON THE HOOFBEAST WITH THE DULL, VACANT EYES. DISMOUNT THE BILGESPEWING FUCK OFF THERE BEFORE I FILL YOU SO FULL OF HOLES A SIEVE WOULD DO A BETTER JOB KEEPING YOUR BLOOD IN.

The rider coolly lowered her gaze to the source of the rather loud interruption. A man stood at the head of the rider's horse, clad in a white twelve-gallon hat, white leather slacks and a white leather vest over a dark shirt. The gray skin and yellow eyes marked him as a troll, one bearing blood mutated by the hemovirus that descended when the sky fell. The white leathers, on the other hand, marked him as something a mite more interesting, one who openly admitted to killing a sacred lusus. It was the mark of a pariah and a villain. 'One with unclean hands'. Those sanctioned bore the title of Threshcutioner, those unsanctioned were branded Orphaner. Well, lusus weren't the only things that walked the Earth with a pale hide, the rider's horse included, but it was nonetheless a bold statement to make. 

The scarf fell from the rider's head of its own accord, coming to rest around her neck. With much practiced ease, she dismounted, and placed her green book into her satchel. Closer now, she could better take in his apparel. From his left hip hung a pair of sickles, their rainbowstone blades gleaming pink and green in the light of the lamps. From his right hip hung a pistol, she couldn't make out the model but its grip was decorated with engraved black stone panelling. Most curious though was the thin, hefty safe strapped to his back. It looked like it must weigh a quarter of a tonne, yet the troll seemed not the least bit hindered by it.

I take it you are the welcoming committee of this charming little rustic retreat. Perhaps you can help me. I am looking for a clown.

OH A WISE GUY, HUH? I DON'T KNOW ABOUT CLOWNS BUT I'M THE LAW AROUND HERE AND ANY FUNNY BUSINESS WILL HAVE TO GO BY ME FIRST.

He jerked his thumb to his chest and glared at the rider, his free hand twitching with the itch for a weapon. 

NOW BE A GOOD PINK MONKEY AND SHOW ME WHAT YOU'RE PACKING.

Is this the part where I'm meant to, oh how did he like to say, 'grabth deekth'?

The rider placed one hand on her crotch made a single, sharp thrust of her hips. The troll's eyes bugged out and he gnashed his teeth.

LAST CHANCE YOU VULGAR, DISGUSTING, BACTERIAL SECRETION OF A SYPHALIS INFECTED LYMPH NODE BEFORE I RUN YOU OUT OF TOWN RIGHT HERE AND NOW. SO STAND DOWN, SHUT UP, AND MAKE A FORMAL DECLARATION OF YOUR WEAPONS TO THE LOCAL AUTHORITY, I.E- ME.

The rider shrugged, and lifted the gun from her holster, an old M9 Beretta. She held it up with two fingers by the barrel and wiggled it like a toy before a cat. With her other hands she slide a pair of needles from her satchel and clacked them together up high like chopsticks. Finally, she stuck out her tongue.

A shot rang out, and a bullet hit the ground right between the rider's feet. She was impressed, she'd barely noticed him draw his gun. The troll levelled his revolver at her face.

GET THE HELL OUT OF MY TOWN BEFORE I PUT THE NEXT ONE BETWEEN YOUR EYES.

Oh that is simply adorable. This angry little man thinks he can chase me out. I've not so much as a sniff of my clown and he thinks I'll leave quietly. How very quaint indeed. Do you not agree Calmasis?

A second shot fired. The bullet stopped an arm's length from the rider's smirking face. Between her and the bullet was a single sheet of paper, the last sheet on a trail of pages leading away into her open satchel bag. Each page was covered in row after row of neat cursive writing, head to foot on both sides.

So once again you see fit to show me off before the ageustiac cebocephalics. Such blatherskite behaviour is very unbecoming of you, Rose, and myself for that matter.

A voice, haughty and condescending echoed from the pages. The paper trail shot out further, snaking rapidly from her satchel and filling the air. Once free, the pages flew together, folding and creasing around an unseen shape as though it had been there all along. White gave way to green and gray, paper gave way to flesh and cloth.

FIFTEEN JARS OF BLOODY HELL, YOU'RE A MAGISTRATE!

The green grimoire of the rider called Rose coalesced into a humanoid figure, clad in a fine green suit and red bow tie, with eyes as white as a ghost, hair to match, and as smoky-skinned as any troll. Perfectly androgynous, and with an expression of bored disinterest, the figure made a mocking bow.

Hello, you dull little clapperdudgeon. I am Calmasis, my tome is The Complacency of the Learned. I believe this is yours.

Calmasis stood, and picked something from under one nail. The living book pulled out an entire bullet, crumpled from impact, and flicked to the ground before Karkat's feet.

Oh dear, we seem to have attracted quite a crowd.

Rose covered her smile with half her hand, looking about the gathered people and back to Karkat. They seemed genuinely more curious than afraid. That wasn't often the reaction to a word wyrder this far from a Library. 

Oh please. As much as you play the wallflower, you lap the spotlight up like ambrosia. Or was it some other author of mine who once penned the manual 'Lessons of Showmanship'.

Calmasis slouched, hands in pockets, and tapped a foot impatiently. 

That is neither here nor there.

She gestured back to the troll before her.

Well here is the summation of my weapons. Your move, mister law man.

 

The troll broke in to a broad, almost desperate grin. In one swift motion he pitched the flat safe off his back face up onto the ground before him, then knelt with one hand on the dial.

JUST TO KEEP THINGS NICE AND CLEAR AS TO WHERE THE BALANCE OF POWER LIES, I'M SOMETHING OF A MAGISTRATE MYSELF. ONLY I KEEP MY GRIMOIRE SEALED UP LIKE THIS BECAUSE THE WORDS PENNED INSIDE IT ARE FAR MORE AWESOME AND POWERFUL TO EVER USE LIGHTLY. WYRD WORDS NOT UTTERED FOR CENTURIES, AND THIS IS INDISBUTABLE FACT FOR WERE ONE OF THE WORDS OF THIS TOME SO MUCH AS WHISPERED ITS PROFANE SYLLABLES WOULD ONCE AGAIN SCAR THIS WRETCHED PLANET RIGHT DOWN TO ITS MISERABLE, SHAME-LADEN CORE. WORDS SO HATEFUL THEY MAKE EVEN THE PITCHEST KISMESERENADES SEEM LIKE A WRIGGLERS MISPELT TO-DO LIST, AND SO BLASPHEMOUS NOT EVEN THE MOST GELATINOUS OF THE MANY MOUTHED FLAGELUM OF THE DEEPEST VOIDS COULD CONTEMPLATE SO MUCH AS ONE OF ITS WEAKER SYNONYMS. ALL I NEED TO DO IS SPIN THIS DIAL AND-

Still haven’t figured out the encryption on that thing yet, huh Karkat?

The crowd parted, letting a new figure step forward. Rose noted with no small fascination the way the troll's violent vibrations seems to intensify in perfect accordance with the bearer of interruptions proximity.

Do you think he might literally explode?

She glanced aside to her grimoire, who watched the spectacle, hand-on-chin in bemusement.

Oh surely not. Probably.

The new speaker, a dark haired, bespectacled you man, approached the troll and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. The man had a bit of an overbite, was dressed in a blue vest over an expensive looking white shirt, and carried himself with unhindered gaiety.

There-there, Karkat. I'm sure you'll figure it out sooner or later.

GO FUCK YOURSELF, EGBERT. I WAS ON A ROLL THERE.

When aren't you on a roll, buddy? Ha ha ha.

NOW YOU'RE JUST TRYING TO PISS ME OFF. GO CHOKE ON YOUR NANNA'S ASHES AND DIE.

The troll named Karkat lifted his safe with both hands and stomped off, grumbling under his breath.

Don't mind Karkat. He thinks he's hot stuff because his ancestor said a rude word once that caused everything within five miles to die, the ground to become scorched, and all the rivers to run red with blood even to this day.

The young man put his hands on his hips and laughed.

Wait, he was telling the truth with all that bluster?

Oh sure. He just never mentions he has no idea how to get the book out of its box. He still carries it around with him because he's sure that when the time is serendipitous, he'll finally guess the encryption and be able to bring ruin upon all the lands. He's a real romantic at heart, that Karkat.

 

With complaints and mutterings about the show being over, the spectators broke off and went back to their business. A hat seller found some kids stealing half of his wares and chased them down the street. Rose looked the young man before her up and down. With the quality of his clothes compared to everyone else he seemed a person of some importance.

So just who are you then, if you don't mind my asking.

Oh how rude of me. I'm John Egbert. My family owns the oil mines around here and since that's how most folks make their livelihood these parts my Dad's practically the mayor here.

John held out his hand. Despite the sneer Calmasis shot her, she shook it. It bore enough rough callouses to convince her that the young man's upbringing wasn't as spoiled as he acted like.

Rose Lalonde, I was a student at Boston Library before becoming a rider. Don't mind Calmasis. I got the bright idea of writing an arrogant grimoire to keep me modest. Unfortunately, it does seem to have rubbed off on me instead.

Wow, sound's exciting. Why did you do quit studying?

To kill a clown. That's why I'm here, actually.

A clown you say?

John chuckled nervously, and pulled on his collar.

Don't worry if you happened to be an amateur juggler in your spare time or anything, this is a very specific clown I'm hunting for. He's quite mad, for one.

Well I gotta say Rose, you seem like a real swell person but this really doesn't seem the public sort of conversation. Tell you what, why don't you come to my place and you can rest up there, that's if you got time too of course. You look and smell like you've been traveling for days.

Weeks, now, and how very flattering of you.

Calmasis rolled both eyes and looked away.

What about my horse?

Oh we have a stable you can use. Since they all died, out horses don't take up as much room as they used to.

Rose raised an eyebrow. Something about that sentence didn't quite ring right, but she couldn't tell just which part to question. 

Well, with such a gracious offer it would be unconscionable of me to refuse. Lead the way, Mister Egebert.

The young man in blue beamed, and turned to lead the way. Rose went back to Maplehoof and walked beside her after him. Calmasis sauntered up behind her and whispered in Rose's ear.

You know, if we were thieves we could easily fossick this kid for all he's worth. Or if you prefer the dompteuse route you could marry him and drop him off a cliff.

That is a mighty big 'if' there Calmasis, and I'm frankly surprised you would even consider lowering ourselves to such a vulgar act.

Who's this we? You get your hands dirty, I get a shiny gold leaf bookmark. Besides that, we are already in this helminthous town. Any further declination than what that already is can only be by the minutest of margins.

Do hush now. Enough of that nonsense.


	2. The Household Egbert

As she followed John back to his family's estate, Rose took the chance to make further observations of the settlement and its people. They dressed simple enough, in coarse, practical clothing made to last for many seasons while their wearing bore them day after day toiling the fields and undertaking manual labor. Even the children proudly boasted the stout limbs and not-so-clumsy gait of those far from strangers to the idea of hard work every day. Enough trolls could be seen about to suggest little discrimination against those born afflicted with the hemovirus, and indeed Rose wagered in places such as this their propensity to more than human strength and endurance was particularly desirable.

Their path led them away from the main part of town, past a construction project of some kind. It seemed the wrong location for a barn, perhaps a storage for surplus, or maybe a clock tower? Such things were outside the rider's expertise. Rose observed a troll walk ahead of her towards the site, carrying three slabs of black stone on each shoulder like they were a couple sacks of feathers. She didn't so much as turn her head to acknowledge the outsider's presence.

Why of all the nerve. Whatever did slay the beast of common courtesy, and who was that villain who executed it?

Calmasis sneered, walking just behind Rose with arms crossed. 

These people are very busy. Perhaps there is a harvest festival coming up?

A harvest of azure fungoid? I'd rather dine upon my own cufflinks.

Your impertinence will do you no favors here. Nor anywhere, I imagine.

I hypothesize such observations were better made before you penned my being, Author.

Calmasis burst into paper, and rapidly reconsolidated back into a bound green tome, though remained floating in the air rather than return to Rose's hold.

Sulking is most unbecoming a manuscript of your calibre, dear Calmasis.

Rose put her hand to her mouth, not laughing but still suggesting it with the gesture.

Sulking? A book such as I? You really have gone mad.

 

A group of small children ran past, chasing a ball. One of their number crashed right into the rider's leg, and fell to the ground in a daze. Rose looked down at him, and silently observed his visage. Upon his head was a mess of untamed brown hair, littered with leaves and twigs, and he wore but a simple shirt and overalls bearing signs of both work and play, yet that wasn't what caught the rider's eye. It was his face that captured her attention. The large, bulging eyes, the too-wide mouth that almost seemed to cut into his cheeks like a wound. That just slightly smoother than natural skin with a faint oily sheen.

The boy recovered his senses, took a nervous glance up at Rose, and ran off after his chums. The rider clicked her tongue twice, and sped Maplehoof up to a casual trot to catch up to John.

Did you see that?

Yes, the poor manners of this place cut right down to its very youngest. Incicurable, I say.

Calmasis drifted ahead, and turned mid-air without breaking speed to float backwards while facing Rose.

No, his face. That was Innsmouth Look. What's the touch of the Deep Ones doing so far from the ocean?

Do I bear the appearance of a textbook on mutagenetic retroviruses of poorly ascertained origin? Why not ask that Grimoire of the Zoologically Dubious I know you still have stashed away somewhere like the gentry harlot that it is.

I simple 'I don't know' might have sufficed.

It would not, of that I assure you.

 

The three of them, horse, rider, and book caught up to John as he turned in to a garden path, not the least bit away that they had lagged behind at all.

So this is my place, of course I imagine you've seen all sorts of amazing places that would put this old house to shame. You really need to tell me all about them over dinner.

Is it dinner time?

Rose cast her gaze up at the dark sky with its flickering false stars.

Oh yeah, I guess you didn't notice since you were travelling so long. It's always dark around these parts, those clouds block the sun out all year round except when there's a storm a'blowing. It sure makes it hard to grow anything other than those shrooms.

Rose thought back to when the moon and stars first vanished. That must have been her entering the shadow of the dark clouds. For all she knew, the sun had come up just an hour later. She never was as good at keeping track of the time as her brother.

Really? Well that is good to know. I might have thought the sun itself had gone out were I to wake tomorrow still covered in darkness.

Hehe, for all we know it has, we'd never know. Seriously though, come in, come in.

 

Up the garden path John led them, past flower beds filled with mushrooms and tall mushroom trees. From one such mushroom tree hung a simple swing of rope and stone. The house itself was a tall, white thing, of a make not favored in over a hundred years. It's stone chimney puffed out smoke dutifully, and here and there could be seen places were the ancient timber and mortar had been patched up with the local black stone. Across from this path was another, broader clear path, leading to a simple barn with a motorized iron door. 

You can stable your horse in here.

The young gent led them to this barn, and thumped his fist on a large red button by the doors. They groaned to life, but after the initial squawk of movement rolled silently upwards like a carpet rolled around a pole. It stood to reason in a place where the earth's heart beat with black gold everything would be well oiled.

Inside the barn were a few modest stalls stacked with hay and riding gear, though not a single horse, nor any other beast for that matter was to be found. A different sort of beast did occupy the structure, however, one of iron and rubber and wheels with teeth and spinning poles. Calmasis drifted over to the sleeping thing.

Oho, is this a genuine automobile vehicle? It's quite old, but in very good condition. Does it still work?

Rose let her grimoire do the talking as she stabled her horse. 

Yes it does.

John beamed with pride, and went about circling the motor car, swelling with pride.

It can ride faster than any horse on clear terrain, and can hold enough fuel to go for days on end. Well, we can't get the kind of fuel it likes easily, and haven’t quite figure out how to make it from the oil around here yet either. It'll run on it, but it belches out smoke like a fat cigar and the parts get worn down way too quick, so it's been just for emergencies for a while now. Heh, well, there's no real loss, there's other ways to travel like the wind, it's only a shame it spends most of its days here and not doing what it was really built for. Kind of sad in a way.

He pushed his glasses up and ran a hand along the vehicle’s bonnet. The registration plates had fallen off long ago, so Rose had no idea where or when it was actually built. No matter, just an idle curiosity. She shut Maplehoof in one loft and stroked the animal's large head.

Now you be a good girl. You've water and food so make yourself at home. I'll come get you later, so sit tight.

She rubbed its snout and scratched behind its ear, then stepped back and nodded. Maplehoof nodded back with a snort, and set about the task of filling its hungry belly.

You're good with horses, huh?

Rose turned to find John smiling at her earnestly, his big blue eyes framed by his glasses in a picturesque snapshot of innocence. A bolt of irritation shot across her gut, but she stamped it down. 

Yes, my father owned several and was something of an aficionado.

Calmasis coughed down a laugh, and she shot him a glare before continuing.

Maplehoof was a gift for my thirteenth birthday, and we've been together ever since.

John led them out the barn, but left the door open behind them. To this Rose raised an eyebrow.

Don't you fear thieves?

Nah, everyone around here knows who we are and like us too much to do a thing like that. Bandits learned to keep away a long time ago. That's all boring stuff though, tell me about your father. Was he a rancher?

More of a renaissance man, driven by a burning need for complete self-sufficiency. He always said that until you could make yourself comfortable anywhere your business lay nowhere.

John whistled.

Sounds harsh. Nothing like my dad.

He could be strict, yes, but when you saw the way he stared at nothing on the rooftops, I think he was hurt more than anything. As a child I thought he was cruel and unreasonable, but a child never does understand how people can hurt those we loves. Looking back, I can see he was scared. Scared he wouldn't be there when it mattered most, scared we couldn't look after ourselves without him. He was cold and unyielding as the metal on his back, but he prepared us well for a world without him and that was how he loved.

Oh, so he's, well, gone then?

She chuckled at the young man's clumsy attempt at tact.

Yes, both my mother and father passed some time ago, but that is a story for another time. What of your parentage?

Oh him. You'll meet him for yourself soon enough.

John opened the front door to his house and stepped inside.

Dad, I'm home. We have guests.

Wonderful, Son. I'll put another cake on.

Dad!

John turned to Rose and rolled his eyes.

Sorry about that. The man's cake mad. I'm afraid you'll just have to endure it.

Empires have brought forth Babel and Babylon for want of a good chef. A great many deeds have been wrought by a cake in cunning hands. What is bakery but its own applied alchemy?

The green tome drifted listlessly ahead, though seemed to pay little heed to the surroundings.

Er, sure, if you say so. Are you part cook book?

They went further in. A fire place and an urn. Paintings of great carnivals and comedians. A shrewd man in a mustache. A staircase. The smell of sweet things in heat. Oil deep underground. More a boy than a man, yet commanding the town. A harlequin is not a clown and that is a very clear distinction. A red fork mounted on a plaque upon the wall. Egbert egg beater. When a cake is done you stick a fork in it. The smell of the ocean, not in the air but in the blood. Unseen slime.

Rose closed her eyes. A pressure was slowly building up in her mind, like a crick in the neck you badly want to crack, There was something here for her to See, if only she could illuminate it. 

I hate cook books.

Calmasis spat venomously, John flinched back.

Okay jeez, no need to be an ass about it.

Daddy!

A sudden cheer snapped Rose out of her focus. Small footsteps thumped rapidly down the stairs, and something threw itself at John Egbert's waist. He caught it, twirled it round in mid-air as it squealed, then set it down. 

Rose, Calmasis, this is my daughter Casey.

The rider considered the girl. She had a head of messy blonde hair, uneven and in need of a haircut. She looked up at Rose with wide eyes, bulging with wonder. Golden eyes, afloat on a sea of white. The girl's mouth was agape with surprise. No, not just agape, her face was split open to show row upon row of nubby little sharp teeth. The unmistakable Innesmouth Look. This girl, too, bore the touch of the Deep Ones. Mutations aside, she seemed healthy enough, she'd been dressed in red shoes and a a simple blue dress. Her face had the roundness of a well fed youth, and her twiggy arms showed neither the bruises of abuse nor the bloating of over indulgence. She looked about thirteen or so, and the slight oddities of her strange genes considered, one would be hard pressed to consider her an ugly child by any means, just a little fishy.

Rose squatted down, bringing herself eye level with the little girl.

Hello there Casey. I am Rose Lalonde, a rider hunting a very bad clown. The sesquipedalian green thing up there is Calmasis, my grimoire. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.

She held out her hand. With some hesitation, the girl took it. At the moment of contact, Rose's mind lit up like a nuclear blaze.

_The sky fell. The things the sky held up fell with it. A jagged, cruel beak. An eye opened. Then another. And a third. It opened its mouth but no sound came out. It opened more mouths, for it was the speaker and mouths it had a plenty. Mouths and eyes split open all across its gargantuan, misshapen form. No, something was still wrong. It lashed out with its many limbs in frustration. How could this be? It was the speaker and it could not speak. Very well. It closed its many mouths and shut its many eyes and pulled itself deeper into the ocean, into the absolute darkness. Others would come soon, not all would abide by the speaker's presence. It would hide, it would bide its time, and it would-_

Rose closed her eyes, and when she opened them she was back in the house of John, looking his daughter in her golden eyes. The girl held her hand like she'd been burnt. Their contact had been but for an instant, but it had stretched for much longer.

Casey? Are you okay?

John approached, unsure if he should interfere but concerned nonetheless.

What did you see Casey?

She kept her voice even and calm, and lowered her hands. 

There was...a sun. It was so big.

The girl's voice was far away, still enraptured by the vision.

It was gold. When I filtered its light through a certain glass, it turned pink. But I spilt ink on that lens the light turned green. That scared me, and I dropped it, but when I looked up it was still green, even though the glass wasn't there. It was green and it was huge, so huge and horrifying even though it didn't do anything. It was big and that was wrong, I don't...it was too big and it was green and that was wrong.

John.

Rose stood, and gestured to the girl. He nodded, and swept his daughter up in his arms. As soon as she was safe against his chest the girl fell asleep.

She has the wyrding about her.

Calmasis poured as countless pages onto the floor, and the gray skinned figure in green rose up from them like a tower rising from water. 

Yes. I first noticed it when she was ten. It runs in the family.

Rose frowned. Something about that seemed odd.

Who was her mother?

No idea. When I adopted her she had no family to speak of. We were in a bad sorts back then. Lots of good people died, lots of kids left to fend for themselves. You can't take care of them all but, well, sometimes you notice one, and something in you says 'this one is yours. look after it.' so I did.

If she's adopted, how can you say it runs in the family?

John laughed, it was the high, good natured laugh of one about to show you a trick.

My nanna was adopted. My dad was adopted. I'm adopted. Casey is adopted. It's something my Nanna told my Dad back when he was a boy. There's more to blood that what you bleed. Bonds and pacts and vows you'd lose your life sooner than break. Just because you don't share flesh doesn't mean you don't share blood, and that's what the wyrding cares about.

He gently shook his daughter awake and stood her on the ground.

Feeling better?

Yeah.

The girl looked down, holding her dress in her hands like she'd done something wrong. John chuckled, and messed up her hair.

There you go. Now come on, it sounds like dinner's waiting.

Right.

Just like that the child's worries were washed away in the capricious love for life only the youth can muster. John led them, daughter, rider and tome, into the dining room, where the man who was presumably his father finished laying out the table. He looked up; a bald, clean shaven man, a hat on his head, a pipe in his mouth, and tie around his neck. He had a strong nose, strong jaw, faint, kind eyes hidden in the shadow of his hat. 

Hey there sport. You said we had one guest but if I count right we have two. Looks like I'd better fetch another chair.

That won't be necessary, old man.

Calmasis flicked his wrist. A few loose pages flew out, then circled back around to become part of the green suit's back.

I require neither food nor seating.

With that Calmasis lifted each leg and bent them around, sitting cross legged mid-air like some guru on a magic carpet, or a capricious djinn. 

Well I'll be. It's been a while since I've met a grimoire other than grandpa's.

Mr. Egbert took his hat of and gave a short bow to both Rose and Calmasis, then gestured to the table. Rose took the invitation and sat down. John moved like he was to sit next to her, but Casey beat him to the punch climbing up the chair, and looked to the rider with brow furrowed in forced focus. John chuckled quietly, and took a seat next to his father.

The meal placed before them was some sort of baked meat, served with a mushroom sauce and a side of mushrooms. A bottle of wine had been cracked open too, except for Casey who was given milk. Before they ate, John cast a glance at a figure on the mantle, a strange, serpentine creature Rose didn't recognize. It was a look of respect, but not necessarily reverence. 

So you have a grimoire?

She asked after trying a mouthful of the mushrooms. They had a rubbery texture and strong, savory flavor. It somehow reminded her of a certain slightly bitter root that was a popular drink ingredient back in the city. An acquired taste, but she wagered it would only take one meal to acquire it.

Yes indeed. It's an old thing, and doesn't like to be roused lightly. The Daunting Text Of Magical Frivolity and Practical Japery, penned by old Colonel Sassacre.

A prankster's tome?

Calmasis snorted from beside Rose, still sitting cross legged in the air.

Oh yes. Don't let the subject matter give a poor impression, Sassacre was from a time where 'tricking the gruff gentleman at the bar into losing all the fingers on one hand' was considered an old classic.

Mr. Egbert puffed merrily on his pipe, his eyes misty with nostalgia.

Oh most of its smoke and mirrors, yes, but there's real magic in those smoke and mirrors. A much subtler sort than the taming of the forces of nature you might find tossed about, but the power to cloud folk's minds and see only what you want them to see, that's power in itself. Of course on the more obvious end the grimoire can conjure all sorts of more direct things. I imagine there's not many who wouldn't appreciate being able to call a cannon out of thin air to shot a little magic man at something.

Your family's grimoire sounds a most versatile and respectable old tome.

Rose tried the meat next. It had good, rich flavor, a bit like mutton actually, but the texture left something to be desired. Whatever the meat's source was, she felt it could do with another fifty generations of domestication.

Why thank you young lady. Beg your pardon, didn't catch your name.

Rose Lalonde, a rider from the East. The green one is Calmasis, the grimoire Complacency of the Learned.

It's a pleasure to meet you both. How is the baked mole?

So that was the meat's secret identity? Well, she'd eaten worse animals. 

It's delicious. I've not had mole before.

I'm afraid it’s the only animal that can really thrive around these sunless parts. The oil brings enough coin in to see the horsed taken care of, but when it comes to what we can afford to sustainably eat it's the moles or the jackals.

You seem to be doing well enough for yourself.

Out the corner of her eye Rose caught sight of Casey sneakily reaching to touch her faded pink scarf. 

Oh we're living, living and growing. There's just a bit more work to do before we can begin thriving.

Right before the little girl's fingers touched it, the scarf suddenly twitched, and snaked around her wrist.

Woah!

Startled and amazed, Casey watched as it slithered up her arm .

Do you like it? This scarf was knitted from the beard hair of only the oldest and wisest wizards, each strand brought together by a pair of powerful wands.

The scarf slithered down the back of Casey's shirt, making her giggle from its tickling, then slipped out and curled up on her lap like a cat waiting to be pet. 

So cool.

Rose laughed softly, and her hosts joined in.

It's not the most wondrous use of majyyks, but it can hold and carry things, bring them even, and it keeps the bugs out of your mouth when you're riding.

 

They finished up dinner swiftly, and after dinner there was cake. Deprived of the sun, a decent crop of any sort of grain was almost impossible, so things like flour and sugar had to be traded for at nearby cities with oil and what to outsiders were exotic mushroom delicacies. Rather than spend frivolous amounts of coin on an excess of luxuries, Mr. Egbert had found alternative sources. Sugars harvested from the nests of ants that could travel half way across the wastelands in a single day looking for desert flowers, milk from moles, eggs from lizards, and flavored with underground root shavings. If she had to compare it to anything, Rose likened the desert to a dry cinnamon and almond teacake. It might have been too bitter on its own, but the vaguely honey and vanilla tasting icing made it palatable, enjoyable even. All the while, a constant bombardment of questions kept flying from the young girl.

So before you went looking for the bad clown what did you do?

I was a student at the Boston Library. It's the second largest library in the world, you know.

What's the largest?

That would be Congress, but only government officials are allowed entry. Too many books containing nasty things.

What did you do in Boston?

Studied, mostly, there were lectures one could attend on this or that topic throughout the week. Regularly scheduled exams throughout the year if you wanted to try for some credentials.

What are credentials?

It's documented proof that you've demonstrated understanding and comprehension of a certain subject, and as such competent enough in the field of that subject to be suitable for employment.

Do you have lots of these credentials?

A few, I could probably acquire a few more if I wanted to, but my present task called me away from such things.

Will you go back to the library when you've caught this bad clown?

Rose sighed, deflating slightly within her chair.

Perhaps. I admit, I've taken quite a shine to the life of a rider. Compared to the petty politics and idle days of student life, the romantic in my can't get enough of this life under the open skies. I can see why my brother flew to it the first chance he got.

You have a brother?

Rose fell silent, trying to find the way to best introduce the subject of her only surviving flesh and blood. Perhaps misunderstanding her silence for reluctance, John pushed his chair back and stood.

Alright Casey, that's enough pestering our guest. Go upstairs and run her a hot bath while I clear the table, okay?

But Daaaad.

No but's. Rose has been travelling a long time, and I'm sure she'd like a chance to get herself clean.

Rose glanced shrewdly at the young man, a smile hidden behind her lips.

Why John, are you saying I smell? Have I carried the wretched scent of one who has gone many days and nights with not so much as a sliver of soap to relieve one's clefts of their musk.

What? No, I never-

John's face grew red, and he coughed out half started syllables trying to find his case to plead it. Covering her mouth with mouth hands, Casey ran giggling from the table to the staircase, and disappeared up their steps.

Rose thought of pressing the jape further, and a few years ago she might have, but she decided to relent for now.

I was only teasing, John. I know you meant no harm and I'm none offended. Pardon me, I can't help myself.

Rose tittered into her hand, and the flush slowly seeped from John's face.

Alright, you got me good. We'll see where the prankster's gambit falls next time, eh?

Quite.

Rose closed her eyes and smiled. Clearing the table passed with idle talk of crops and stock, and soon enough Casey called out that the bath was ready.

 

Rose stepped into the bathroom, and slid the lock. It was a white, almost clinical looking room, but the colorful toothbrushes in a cup, a few cracked tiled filled with bright caulk, and the odd sight of a full shelf stacked with shaving foam helped add some character to it. Calmasis, a green tome once more, came to rest atop the bathroom mirror. A clean, fluffy towel had been placed over a rack, and on a shelf above it had been laid out a few clean nightclothes. 

Rose unwound her scarf, which quickly coiled itself around the towel rack. She then removed her satchel and placed it atop the sink, followed by her gun in its holster. Alleviated of her arms, she began undressing from her dark traveller’s robes.

He's amorous for you. You play games close enough to what he likes, still retain your youthful looks, and would make a good mother for his child, he fancies.

What he fancies is what I represent, an exotic outsider, full of mystery and intrigue. He sees in me what he longs for himself, someone with the boldness to throw off responsibility and selfishly pursue a great quest. Any old rider would evoke the same feelings from him.

She shed her robes and undergarments, and stood naked in the bathroom before her grimoire unabashed. There was no more need for modesty than before her own reflection, and indeed that's what a grimoire was in many ways, a reflection of their author. 

Yet you do not disagree. Not in spirit. Tell me, Author, you spoke to him of your clefts and musk, mayhap it is not soap you would relieve yourself with but his tongue.

Rose calmly shifted her clothes aside, cleared the sink of its obstacles, and dipped a sponge into the bath's hot waters. 

Is that what I want or what you want? Would you have me fill your pages with every intimate, perverse detail as I bring the world to its knees, one sexual conquest at a time?

She squeezed the excess soapy water from the sponge, and scraped it along her naked collar.

You are she who did pen my existence. What can I want that you do not want?

After clearing the grime away from around her neck, Rose rinsed the sponge under the cold sink tap, and dipped it once more into the hot bath.

The characters and events portrayed within the book are fictional, and any resemblance to peoples living or dead is purely coincidental.

She dragged the sponge along first one slender arm, then the other.

The opinions voiced within this text are entirely their own, and do not in any way associated with those of the publishing firm.

Her voice was cool and methodical as she scraped the grime from her body. and once the worst of the muck had been removed she allowed herself to step into the steaming hot bath. Pain blossomed in her legs like they had been flayed, and her reflexes said to escape but the rider closed her eyes and endured it. This, too, was one of the pleasures of a nice, hot bath. Once the pain had subsided to an aching sensitivity, Rose sat down in the water, and the pain bloomed anew across her thighs and stomach. She relished it, and laid back until her whole body was underwater. Her breathing stopped, her heart slowed, and behind closed eyes she could see.

_A face, so similar to her own, looking at its own reflection in a still pool. Similar, but with differences. The eyebrows, thicker, and an Adam’s apple where on the other was only smooth neck. Eyes hidden behind tinted lenses, and skin that had borne many more hot days than the other ever had. In this one's hands was a sword. It was broken. It was not broken. Neither of these things had come to pass, yet they would. It was up to this one to choose which, and how. This one did not know that, however, this one knew only that they needed a new weapon, and somewhere around the area was a suitable candidate._

 

A knock on the door snapped Rose from her vision. Her eyes snapped open and stung at water's contact. She forced them to stay open, and sat up.

Who is it?

Silence, hesitation, and then-

Um, it's me, can I come in?

A child's battle with curiosity lost, it seemed. Rose made a gesture, and her scarf stretched from the rack where it lay to the door and undid the latch.

You may.

Rose watched, curious herself, and the youth came in. Casey stepped in quietly, and locked the door behind her. 

Daddy, he uh, Daddy said to ask you if you needed anything.

A lie, Rose observed. Asking permission to stay. An invitation to send her away without ever having done something wrong, were the story bought. She regarded Rose's nakedness with no more concern than if she happened to have painted her nails, less even. What she did pay attention to was the scar between the rider's breasts. It was a dark, discolored thing that sat right atop her heart, and even to the untrained eye it was obvious there was a certain wrongness with how the wound had healed.

Yes, actually. If you could scrub my back and brush my hair, that would be wonderful. In exchange, I would gladly answer more of your questions.

The girl approached, and Rose handed her the wash cloth as she passed. She took it wordlessly as though in a trance, and stood behind where Rose sat at the head of the bath. Casey took one look at the rider's back and gasped.

There, directly opposite the scar on her chest was another, dark and ridged. Whatever had caused the scars had passed right through the rider's heart. 

Go on. My back won't bite.

Rose said that, yet all the same the scar seemed to stare up at Casey from the pale flesh, and if it were to split open to reveal a maw of jagged teeth it would be not surprise but horrified confirmation that struck the girl. Nonetheless, Casey steeled her nerves, and took the cloth to the rider's back.

Ooh yes, that's the spot. You may ask away. No topic is taboo.

The girl gulped, and continued rhythmically scrubbing at Rose's back while she found her words.

Take your time.

How, um, how did you get that scar?

Rose closed her eyes, and melted into the girl's ministrations. The question had been expected, and a few different likely conversations had already been planned ahead.

You know of the wyrd words?

Yes. Daddy and Poppop can use them. They make magic happen.

Well a few words are, so to speak, forbidden. They are primal, far reaching words, that often disguise themselves as simpler words to get others to speak them. They bring forth terrible things, devilbeasts we call them. One such word came into my household. A devilbeast came. That scar is from when the devilbeast's claw passed right through my chest.

The girl seemed to consider this.

Can, can I touch it?

You may.

She dropped the sponge, and hesitantly pressed one finger against the gnarled scar tissue. She brushed her fingertips upon it gently, and when that earned her no reprimand she reached across with her other hand to the scar's other end, as if to confirm with the alignment of her fingers that the wound had indeed gone right through. With one hand pressed between the rider's shoulders, and another between her breasts, the girl began her questions again.

How did you survive? Shouldn't this have killed you?

It could, and it did, upon certain definitions. My heart and breath ceases, my mind faded to black, yet though I spiralled from life like rain down a gutter pipe I heard a voice.

Whose voice?

I can't say. Perhaps it was my mother. Perhaps it was something old and terrible speaking through her. It could give, but not without taking, nor did it want to. I consented.

Your heart, can I listen to it?

You may.

Rose leaned back against the bath's edge, and let the girl lower her ear to the rider's chest. There was a pulse, yes, that the girl could hear, but there was a wrongness about it, it kept the wrong time and it hit the wrong notes, and the sound of it reminded her of something else. Something she had heard and forgotten. It made her want to blow bubbles. What did even that mean?

Casey stood up, wet hairs clinging to the side of her face, and her cheeks slightly flushed.

I should get back to your back, I mean, cleaning, like we agreed.

She hurried back around the rider and fetched the cloth from where it fell in the water.

So, what happened to the devilbeast?

The girl wrung the cloth out, and applied herself to cleaning and easing the rider's shoulders.

It was slain, but not before claiming the lives of my mother and father.

Oh.

and after a time.

Were you sad?

Frustrated, mostly. I wanted revenge, peace of mind, but with the thing already torn apart I had nowhere to find it.

What did you do?

Oh, I stomped around, just another dark and troubled youth with too much power and not enough sense. Then I met someone, a magnificent and terrible teacher.

Who?

She had come to be known as Cetus by those around her, and oh was she wise.

Having ran out of back to scrub, Casey let the cloth fall and retrieved a hairbrush from the mirror's cabinet. 

Was she your teacher at the library?

No, though I went there shortly after our meeting. I couldn't help her, but she gave me what I needed that maybe one day I could.

Rose closed her eyes as the girl brushed her hair, felt in the bath's water the frozen waves as she tipped overboard, felt in the cool air the sudden warmth as she was swallowed by the leviathan. Even so many years later it was impossible to tell what had been real and what a trance. The distinction was meaningless. She had experienced it, and it had changed her. That was fact.

Silence fell upon them, and after a while of brushing the rider's hair stroke after stroke another question came to Casey's lips.

Why are you hunting the bad clown.

Rose paused, weighing up just how blunt she wanted to be.

He killed a very dear friend of mine, and took his grimoire. I managed to curse him with madness, but he still lives. I have travelled this far following that madness. When I find him, I will kill him and take the grimoire back.

The brush dropped from Casey's hand with a clatter.

You came this far to get back at someone?

Did I? I think not. Had my friend been merely slain, I might have been satisfied to let the madness run its course. That such a fiend took his grimoire though, I'm not sure someone who has yet penned a tome could understand it, but just the thought of it makes me sick to the stomach.

Though Rose's hair had grown some length in the months since she left the library, it was still short enough to require little maintenance. She ran her fingers through it and found it thoroughly brushed. Deeming herself sufficiently clean, she stood in the bath and stepped out. Her skin had turned pink from the heat, and now the cool air left her goosefleshed and steaming in the white room. She stood still and breathed deeply, paying no regard to the girl in the room with her, until the urge to faint left her skull and she could think clearly again. A hot bath was taxing, dangerous, but well worth its pleasures. Rose grabbed the fluffy towel from the rack and began drying herself down.

 

Her well of questions dried up for now, Casey watched as the rider mopped the bathwater from her skin and the sweat from her limbs. She watched as the rider dressed in the nightclothes laid out for her, watched as each movement happened to allow her hand to pass over the gun by the sink, and watched as the woman turned to her with bright orchid eyes.

My dirty clothes,

Rose gestured to the pile as her scarf, its own methods of keeping clean, slithered up her arm and around her neck.

Is there someplace I should take them or...?

Ah, I can take them to be washed for you. Also, your room is the third one on the left when you leave the bathroom, turning right that is.

The blonde girl hastily gathered up the rider's discarded clothes and hurried out the door. Once she was gone and the door shut behind her, Calmasis spoke.

I never took you for a paedophile.

and what vulgarities are you spewing now?

It was seduction of the imagination rather than seduction of the loins, but the seduction none the less. What are your designs for this errant child?

I sought nothing but to entertain a youth's curiosities.

Rose padded down the nightclothes given to her. They didn't quite fit, but they preserved enough modesty for private decency, as little as she cared for it. She gathered up her gun and her satchel and headed for the bedroom set aside for her.

So what might be your plan now, Author? You've baited the daughter and the father, might you also snag the father's father and have the whole family in your basket?

Is that how it looks?

Rose held the bedroom door open long enough for Calmasis to slip inside and shut it behind her.

That's how I call it. Still, I can only hypothesize at what fetid contemplations lurk behind your cortex. So from the courtesan whore's own mouth, what are you thinking?

I am thinking of what I am to do when Til Death is safely in my hands. One destination is the life of a free rider, the other destination is the politically influential life of a class topping student, but I feel both this are just illusions on the horizon. I feel there's something in this household I've not yet seen that casts a shadow on my journey. I can't tell if the daughter or the father lies at the tip of what casts the shadow, but it is something terribly important at the base which I am blind to that it all stems from.

Calmasis collapsed into a grey human upon the bed, and yawned. Rose sat down at the bedroom's desk. From her satchel she took out a ball of swirling crystal. 

It's all well and good posturing hollow intuitions but what will you do?

I will find the clown. I will get the grimoire. By then, I will know if anything in this town has true sway for me, of if it's just the longings of a foolish girl with delusions of grandeur best left behind.

Hmph, be that as you will.

And Calmasis fell silent. Left alone to her thoughts, Rose stared into the orb and muttered a word, scarcely more than a whisper, but full of untold comprehension.

Seer.

A ripple passed through the glass's purple contents, and the Seer did see.

_The two faced clown, black tome in hand. Madness makes wildfire of his mind. Understanding fled him long ago, but not purpose. He no longer knows why, but retains what he must do. A clown is a clown so long as it is funny. Laughing on the outside, crying on the inside. What is outside? What is inside? Soon, the distinction will be lost, and he will be a clown no longer, but he still has time to complete his final task before then. He must call, he must call, and with that call the curtain will fall. There is no greater tragedy that the death of a clown, for that is a line that never has nor never will be writ. He will die, he will die, but not as a clown. Before that curtain falls he must make the call. There is an aching in his heart and it reaches his eyes. No. Not yet. Before the tears fall he must make the call. He opens his black tome, soiled near ruin, and recites the runes of the harlequin entombed. The call, the call, the clown must fall._


	3. The Speaker

Rose snapped awake from her trance at a loud, violent rumbling. Untold hours had passed, but she knew what she must do, where she must go.

Complacency of the Learned, by my side.

Calmasis flew from her bed in a torrent of paper and formed into the grey figure in green.

You found the clown?

At the church. We have to hurry, he's done something horrible to Til Death and has seen fit to use it.

Disgusting. Let us dismember and exsanguinate the vile fool post haste.

 

Rose slammed open the door, still clad in her night clothes but having grabbed her satchel and holstered gun, and hurried down the stairs. At their foot she found John, lifting a colossal tome from its place in a bookshelf.

You know of it too?

I heard it on the land's breath. Something awful and evil.

It's my clown. He's at the church and wishes to go out with a bang, it seems.

Well, better take care of him then. Do you know where it is?

The grimoire fell from the shelf with a window rattling thud. It was easily five times the thickness of the Complacency, and slowly lifted itself with a hack and a cough.

I'm afraid not.

The pair rushed outside, and were greeted by the sight of a pillar of fire rising from the town's edge.

Well, you do now.

Land snakes alive! Are they cooking our petrol?

A figure stepped behind John, and placed a calloused hand upon his shoulder.

They're cooking everything, I think.

The figure bore the face of an old man, gray haired and eyes twinkling with mischief. A full mustache bristled beneath his nose, and thick cigar letting off sparks sat in his mouth. He was dressed in a blue suit, covered in golden stars and moons, his coattails billowing behind him, around his neck hung a pink tie, and upon his head sat a matching magician's cap towering up to a conical point.

Are you the genius loci of the Daunting Text?

Yes, yes, I be Colonel Sassacre, or close enough to him now that my Author has passed. Now what are you whippersnapper’s dawdling on about? Hop to it!

 

They ran towards the pillar of flame, but when they broke into the main street their balked at the sight that befell them.

What are these things?

Small, black, impish things dressed in garish colors struck at windows and tore open doors. Their skin glistened under the light of the flame, and some of them burned themselves though paid it no heed. Their eyes were as white as the false stars above, and their claws tore through the black stones the buildings were made from as easily as if they were hewed from bread. Though most of the store owners lived elsewhere, of those who sat residence above or behind their shops screams rang out, some followed by gunshots, but not enough for comfort.

This is that clown's doing.

Rose spat, and called Calmasis to her.

No, this is my town. I'm the one supposed to look after it. Sassacre!

Aye, aye, sonny, hold your horses.

The blue tome collapsed from its form and fell into John's hand. He dashed through its pages and began to Speak.

My family came here in the summer of eighteen ninety nine and here we have overseen its growth. I am John Egbert, Heir to this Land, and I have consulted with its denizen Typheus. This Wind is mind. This Shale is mine. All which my ancestors claimed as their own I claim as my inheritance. I am Ghosty Tricktser, Heir of Wind and Shale, this land's Breath is my own and in my governance I'll not suffer this insurrection. In the name of Typheus and my ancestors, I find you want!

The blue tome's pages turned fast as a storm as John spoke, the wyrd words he called upon spilling from its leaves in gusts of blue. John was raised up by the growing wind, and below him formed spectral horse of green, ephemeral slime. Atop his ghosty steed, he brought his arm down, and all the black imps within sight were crushed under sudden pillars of wind. Each one burst into a goopy mess of crude oil and whatever they happened to have held.

Rose! Go deal with your clown. I'll make sure these people are safe.

Rose nodded, and ran from the growing gale around the young man toward the pillar of fire that rose from the church. She rounded a corner, and found herself facing down another street filled with imps. They had already sensed her becoming and stood before her a hoard. It seemed stopping her, or at least slowing her down was their purpose.

Rose.

I know!

She pulled from her satchel her two needles, and held them tight between her fingers.

Oglogoth the Deep One, perverse purveyor of all that shies from Light. In the name of our pact with thee and thou, fill thine thorns with grimdarkest blight.

Her needles crackled, and thrummed with an eerie orchid glow. With a deep breath, she slipped into a gunslinger's stance her mother had taught her. One arm drawn back like it held a bowstring, the other held straight, and both pointed down at a forty five degree angle to quickly swing and point in almost any direction. It had been designed for fighting with a gun in each hand, but suited her needles well enough.

Rose fired a shot, no wide than a pin prick, right between the eyes of the first garish imp she caught sight of, exploding it into a splatter of goo. Summoned wretches such as they were well within her power to wipe out in a single blast, but for want of minimising collateral damage she opted to cut them down like one would lance a face full of boils. 

Come you craven maggot spawn of a fetid mind and blasphemed words, be courteous to your betters and die.

The imps charged, but she did not rush to meet them. Without breaking stride she walked through their number, her arms gliding from position to position to intercept every lunge and avoid every blow. She crouched low, a clawed hand singing overhead, and with arms crossed shot down the creatures to her left and right. When she stood she shot one before her and one leaping from above. She stepped forward and ended two trying to route her from behind. With every motion, a shot, with every shot, a step, with every step, another graceful motion. Every arcane bolt found home, and in the cackling, gibbering pile of claws and teeth not a single thing could touch her. 

With unerring steps I walk the radiant path of fortune. I know not know and I know not why but at each crossroad I do see how.

The pages of Calmasis blurred beside her, flicking through seemingly endless leaves as she worked her magic. 

Weightless. Always traveling a straight path through path. Reflected, refracted, but never turning. Turning is a phantasmagoria of the path itself. Thy number is 299 792 458.

On sunbeams and blaze I walk the fortuitous path of Light.

With reflexes sharpened on prescience and honed with practice she cut through the rampaging imps. Her needles were a flickering blur, firing shot after orchid shot aimed not with sight but with the mind's eye. Though more and more of the black creatures swarmed around her, spilled forth by whatever accursed pit the clown had opened, she continued without falter towards the burning church. 

The winds howled behind her, John's fury tearing apart everything that escaped execution at the tips of her needles. Mr. Egbert had said nothing of the Daunting Text commanding the world's breath. Yet John had evoked the name Typheus. Cetus had spoken of him once, and she carried Rose within her belly. So it seemed this land, too, had its own denizen. Had Sassacre met with the ancient beast, or was John the first of his line to do so? These things Rose thought without thinking, the dream-like piecing of information that one never noticed until they realized they already had the answers when certain questions were asked. Rose's mind was clear, and saw only light. 

 

 

Rose opened a door, and mentally faltered. Fortune's path had led her on a detour from the church. From the painting and chalk on the walls, and the desks lining the room, it seemed to be a school of some kind, or perhaps an orphanage. Several of the windows had been smashed in, and the tell-tale trails of black slop showed that a number of imps had intruded here, perhaps hiding from her, or perhaps drawn by something else. The faint sounds of voices echoed from above her. Walking hastily, Rose found the staircase and climbed.

Something broke. A cry rang out. Sobbing. The tittering laughter of the imps. She reached the top of the stairs, but the sounds came from higher still. Her path led her to a balcony, home to a potted plant and a broken easel. She turned, and saw figures on the rooftop, evidently climbed there from the balcony.

Children, cornered against a chimney by a group of seven imps. A black smear indicated where one of the imps had been slain. The youngest child look as little as four or five. The eldest as old as fifteen. Between the other children and the imps stood Casey. When had she gotten here? No, the answer was self-evident. She had known these children before she was adopted and knew them still. Sneaking out to meet them was probably a common occurrence. It had probably been Rose herself the topic of conversation tonight. That made sense, but hardly mattered. What mattered was Casey stood against a group of savage imps, a broken chair leg stained with black slime in her hand. They jeered and feinted at her, making her flinch, and the girl's eyes were rapt with fear, fear and something else. She was babbling to herself, though the howling winds carried it away from the Rider's hearing. Rose lifted her needles, but the winds changed, and what she heard stayed her hand.

I sleep I sleep far from home I sleep. In the dead abyss I sleep I sleep and I lay in dreaming. Dreaming. Dreaming. I sleep but I want to speak. I sleep but I want to speak.

One of the imps moved closer, but Casey beat the roof with the chair leg once, twice, three times. The imp backed off, and dragged its claws across its throat in threat.

I sleep but I want to speak. I sleep but I want speak. I sleep but speak. Sleep but speak. Sleep but speak. I. Speak. Hear me. Hear me. Hear me. Hear me hear me hearmehearmehearmehearmehearmeh'rmeh'rme. G'lb. Golyb

Casey threw her head back, her mouth, already too wide, seemed to open further still than seemed physically possible for anyone. It started in the back of her throat, a deep, guttural sound that could never possibly be uttered by a small child. It rose up her throat and filled her mouth like some vast bubble. In her hands, the magistrate's needles trembled in resonance.

Cover your ears!

The rider was scarcely able to call out before the bubble burst. Too frightened to think, the children obeyed.

**GLUB!**

The shockwave of the blasphemous word crashed across the town at the speed of sound. Windows shattered. Water turned sterile. The black clouds that covered the sky parted, and the light of the moon shone down upon the settlement for the first time in many months. The imps before her bulged out grotesquely, the magic holding them together violated to the core by the uttered word, and burst violently in a shower of enchanted oil. The rider's needles sung out like tuning forks, recognizing their sister in power. History is made of large and small things, and the wyrd word of the horrorterror's emissary carved itself a tiny footnote of black liquid sorrow upon the fabric of reality. 

Her ears and mind still ringing, Rose leapt to the rooftop and ran to the child. The tiles beneath her unsteady feet had been reduced to ash, and the conjured spawn before her had been reduced to nothing but a long black stain, but her eyes were bloodshot with mania, and her throat swelled like she might speak again. Behind Casey, the other children had been rendered unconscious by the utterance, though fortunately none seemed to be bleeding at the ears or nose. Rose swept the girl up in her arms and held her tight.

Shhhh. It's okay now. The monsters are all gone. You were brave, Casey, you were so brave.

After a moment's consideration, she put her hand against the back of the girl's head. Such gestures did not come naturally to the rider, had her own mother ever done such a thing? Her father? Or had she just seen some other family go through the motions she now did. Regardless, they seemed to work a little, and the deranged mania faded into straight up fear. Rose's eyes darted around, looking for some answer. 

It came in the form of John, descending to the rooftop upon a gust of air. 

I heard Casey's voice.

He looked straight to his daughter in Rose's arms, eyes wide with worry.

She said a Word, a big one.

He took his daughter from the Rider into her arms, carrying her easily. His face bore confusion at first, then dawned with understanding.

With no grimoire? Did she imitate one of mine?

No, nor one of mine. A child's head is very impressionable. Those with the wyrding have an uncanny way of, well, hearing words from elsewhere, and with other ears.

John's buck teeth pressed into his lip with concern. 

Did you know she was visiting her friends tonight?

Rose's voice slid comfortable back into her normal near-monotone of idle talk as she turned to the unconscious children.

Well I knew she did it now and again, but I didn't notice her slip out tonight or I'd have come straight here for sure.

You do know more imps will return, do you not?

Calmasis broke into the conversation impetuously, drifting up beside the rider.

Just because the first wave has broken does not mean the ocean is depleted.

Calmasis is right. Take your daughter, take these children, take everyone you can rouse as far from the church as you dare. It shouldn't take too long to down the clown, but there's no telling what he might before I do.

Right, I'll get Karkat to help me evacuate.

Karkat? Really?

Rose raised an eyebrow. 

When he's not fretting over that slab or his ego he's a real steady hand. He's a touch of the wyrding too, if he'd just put his ancestor aside and write his own grimoire already.

Very well then. This is your town and I'll let you govern it as you see fit.

The rider shrugged her shoulders, and washed her hands of the matter with it. 

Hey now, I know I said my family practically runs this town, but I'm still their buddy. This isn't governing, this is just, what would you call it, friendleading.

If you say so.

She said nothing of the 'in my governance' he'd invoked before. With the dark clouds fast enclosing on the moon, Rose pointed one needle skywards and, enveloped by a lavender glow, elevated off the ground.

You could have done this before, and be done by now.

Calmasis grumbled, in that smooth voice both masculine and feminine.

Yes, and poor Casey might be dead, or worse. Fortune's path is clear.

Fortune's path errs to the scenic route too often for my taste.

Oh hush, we still have work to do.

While John gathered up the children upon the back of his ghostly green horse, Rose rushed towards the burning church like a shot from a cannon.


	4. Six Little Words and a Laugh

On her approach to the church, the rider was able to see the extent of her quarry's handiwork. The pillar of flame rose far higher than it had any right to. A dark glow shone from within, and thorny black flagellum of massive size had burst through each and every stained glass window. Those that didn't writhe in the air had plunged into the ground, and where they had taken route more imps did rise from the cracked rock, dripping with the oil they were moulded from. Whatever the clown intended, something terrible was coming. 

Always one for courtesy, Rose knocked on the large double door of the church with an imp she'd snatched up, crushing it into a black pulp. The door slammed open from the impact, and she beheld the clowns dark work.

TWAS BRILLIG MY FRIEND. and the slithy motherfuckers did gyre and gimble in the wabe. ALL MIMSY WERE THE BOROGOVES. and the mome raths did the motherfuck outgabe.

The clown turned to her, reading in alternated high shouts and hushed whispers from the polluted tome. It's black cover and white pages, once pristine to the point of compulsion, were now stained a sickening rainbow of blood and slime. The words ~ATH were just barely visible on its spine. He wore a filthy green jester's outfit, ripped and stained, its pants held up by suspenders, and around his shoulders he'd draped a ragged poncho of dark purple. Behind him was a great black thing, pulsing with tyrian light, and it was from that black thing that the colossal vines grew.

Brillig has long passed, errant fool, and you'll not live to see another.

The clown's painted face split in a razor-grass grin. His yellow eyes twinkled with madness and mirth.

the sun was shining on the sea. SHINING WITH ALL HIS MIGHT: he did his very best to make THE BILLOWS SMOOTH AND BRIGHT, and was odd because it was THE MIDDLE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING NIGHT.

The clown dropped the grimoire, left it floating just before him, clutched the base of his curved horns and threw his head back in rapturous laughter. In an instant, the laughter silenced, and his face grew grim.

what the motherfuck do you want, sun? CAN'T YOU SEE IT'S THE MOTHERFUCKING NIGHT?

With one gnarled, well chewed hand to his chest the clown flung his arm to the pulsing black thing behind him like it was entirely self evident.

I am here to revenge upon the death of Sollux Captor, and if I cannot cleanse his beloved grimoire then to destroy it.

Ye Voices, and ye Shadows and Images of voice- to hound and horn from rocky steep and rock-bestudded meadows flung back, and, in the sky's blue caves reborn. Thus sprach Wordsworth.

The death rattle of Sollux Captor has echoed, clown, echoed and is now flung back to you. Your screams, too, shall join the choir of the dead.

Rose stepped forward, her needles in hand. They throbbed with the Deep One's power, they ached.

sollux captor?

The clown tilted his head.

WHO THE MOTHERFUCK WAS THAT?

He plucked the soiled grimoire from the air and flicked through its pages.

was that the pissblood i took this from? DOES A SHEPARD LEARN THE NAMES OF EACH LITTLE BEAST HE TAKES WOOL FROM?

The thorny flagellum from the rift seemed to stretch and groan in accordance to the mad troll's mood. 

What be your name, clown, so I know what to carve on your grave before I pass water there.

they call me this. GAMZEE THE MOTHERFUCK MAKARA. they call me goatspawn of a whore and a devil. OR WAS IT THE DEVIL THAT LIVES A WHORE'S LIFE? no matter. I AM THE BLACKEST HEART. the bringer of green. THE MIDNIGHT CALLIOPE. that is me. THE MOTHERFUCK ARE YOU?

Gamzee slammed his foot to the ground as he yelled, his face stricken with twisted anxiety.

I am Rose Lalonde.

and I grow weary of this banter. Let us dispose of the clown before that rift gets any worse.

Well said, Calmasis, let's.

The Complaceny of the Learned's pages erupted, and swarmed around the rider. Countless leaves of paper clung to her body and clothes, wrapping themselves around her arms and legs and waist. Paper gave way to thick, rubbery hide, and the words on the pages become mouths and eyes. Her scarf twitched and spasmed, erupting in thorny spikes not unlike those that intruded from the clown's dark rift. The pages not now clinging to her in the form of alien flesh spun around her, a protective whirl. 

 

 

She adopted her gunslinger's stance and strode towards the clown, who seemed entirely unimpressed with the display. The mad troll reached deep into his tattered jester's clothes and pulled out a strange object; a figurine, a fetish depicting a blue bearded man in fancy clothes. The clown who claimed to be called Gamzee regarded the figurine with curious amazement, as though he hadn't expected to find it there at all. However his amazement fast returned to a lackadaisical grin. and the tossed the figurine up and down in his land like one might an apple.

all's tight then my foolish motherfucker, you've asked your silly questions. NOW LET'S PLAY YOUR SILLY GAMES.

Bellowing malice, the troll lunged forward. Rose fired two lavender bolts at him from her needles, but he hurled the figurine at the ground and when it bounced up her majyyks struck it instead. His soiled, stolen tome rushed ahead of him. Rather than an explosive rearrangement like the rider's grimoire, when it changed it did so with a lurching, roiling shift, melting from one form to another. From the marred grimoire emerged a figure clad in filthy black robes, its expressionless, skeletal face dripping with green slime, and a rusty, worm-eaten scythe in its hands. 

Oh, sweet Death, what has he done to you?

Rose swerved aside of the arcing scythe easily, but barely ducked below the figurine when it came flying at her from the side. The tiny blue man rocked overhead, bounced off a wall of the burning church and flew right into the clown's waiting hand. 

Ye gods. He's actually going to strife with that thing.

Head's up, Calmasis, we've the both of them to deal with.

Rose leapt back from Death's arcing scythe and fired four bolts in rapid succession square in the skeletal being's chest. It burst into paper, which oozed its way backwards through the air back to Gamzee's side and reformed.

Rose rushed the troll, firing a volley of orchid bolts as she flew across the floor. With uncanny reflexes Gamzee turned each shot aside with his figurine, and soon as she was close enough he grasped it by the legs and swung it down at her like a club. She crossed her needles before her, crackling with energy, and caught the blow between them.

 

In the rift behind their battle, a dark pulse thrummed. Two colossal, red eyes, impossibly cruel and uncaring in their gaze, dragged themselves open like drawbridges. They spun around madly, then locked their gaze onto the mortals battling before it. It looked upon them and it calculated.

From its tattered pages Death crawled back out one bony hand at a time. It's whole dripped with the green slime now, and its scythe had warped and broken into the shape of a spear. With empty sockets clogged with ooze, the skeletal figure took careful aim at the rider's back, and let fly.

Two shots rang out. From the vibrant whorl of pages surrounding Rose, Calmasis had emerged, a gun in hand; a colonial flintlock pistol. It had a wooden grip, a brass-colored barrel, and was generously trimmed with ornate silver metalwork. The spear's head shattered, and its shaft collapsed into splinters. With blinding speed the androgynous figure loaded and reloaded the pistol, firing off six more shots into the reaper's form. Death shrieked of a soundless cry and lost its form once more.

The rider and the clown were trapped in melee now. She fired and fired again but he swung and bounced his strange figurine and flawlessly averted her aim or deflected her shots, seemingly by accident half the time. Even gazing the path of fortune, it was impossible to keep track of where the tiny fancy man flew. 

She aimed her wand at the troll's head, and it came flying from behind to strike her elbow off target just as she fired. With her other hand she aimed at his gut, but had to step back to avoid the figurine flying up and hitting her in the jaw. She took aim again, but it suddenly bounced in from her blindspot and knocked one of the needles from her hand. Not missing a beat, she reached for her holster and drew the Beretta, squeezing off three rounds into the clown's shoulder before the figurine returned and blocked the following two shots, neither one so much as scratching its paint. Rose's scarf shot out, and snatched her wand out of the air before it could hit the ground. The whole exchange lasted only a scant few seconds. 

The troll staggered back, his wounded shoulder hanging low, but the grin still on his painted face. He idly tossed the blue figurine up and down in his good hand, like one might an apple, or a ball, or a ring of keys. Behind him the figure of Death rose once more. The cheeks of its slimy green skull bulged out like cancerous growths, and it held a strange cube floating between its skeletal hands. The cube began rotating, and as it did it seemed to turn inside out again and again and again as it moved through more than three dimensions of space. A bright light began to shine, and as Gamzee cartwheeled aside Rose leapt back, needles at the ready.

The cube spun fast enough the winds seemed to scream, and from that shining light a terrible beam shot forth. From the swarm of paper surrounded her, Calmasis's arm emerged, a white conductor's baton in hand. Eyes gleaming with dark power and no time to dodge, Rose met the attack with two orchid beams of her own, and Calmasis raised the conductor's baton to launch of a third, of radiant white. 

Like a ravenous serpent, the rider's magic devoured the polluted tome's, and crashed into the corrupted genius loci fangs first. Death staggered back, its limbs bending at unnatural ankles, and its right leg blown clear off. For the third time the figure of Death melted away. Rose doubted it would survive the next exchange to do so a fourth. The magic binding its pages had already been abused to their limits. 

With an inhuman scream, Gamzee threw himself at the rider, figurine flying like a large blue bullet around him. She met him, deflecting his strange weapon like a bizarre game of squash. Without time to think where she was aiming, Rose fired volley upon volley of lavender missiles from the wands held in her hand and scarf, keeping the little fancy man at bay while with the M9 in her other hand she fended off the nigh rabid troll's fangs and claws and horns. Gamzee's clothes could no longer be recognized as those of a jester's, and all the laughter and the mirth and joviality had long fled his countenance. All that remained was fear, fear and savage, animistic desperation without comprehension. The madness curse had finally taken the last of the clown away, leaving only a deranged beast. The sounds of hardened keratin on metal and majyyk barrages echoed throughout the burning church, and the thing in the black rift let out a malevolent chuckle.

The two red eyes had been joined by two more, one above and below, and as the rift grew wider and wider the thing behind is pushed forward like a starving child pressing its face against a bakery window. Its disgusting flesh had the qualities of both leather and plants, covered in thorny protrusions, and upon its brow was a black mark; an acute angle above a swirl that looked like a horizontal S. Its nose was but a slit, and chitinous mandibles clacked with laugher around its mouth. It seemed this was the thing the once-clown had sought to loose upon the world.

With a horrific yell, Gamzee swung his figurine right against Rose's chest. Against the xenoflesh and her grimoire's pages and her protective majykks, the clean hit still send her flying down the church aisle, past burning and broken pews. Her scarf struck out, and flung her back upright before she struck a decorative column. Between her and Gamzee, the figure of death rose for the last time.

The green slime had completely covered it now, even its robes, and it stood on one leg in a puddle of viscous lime. Upon its skull, however, new colors had begun to spew. From its bulging cheeks bright, sopping red ran down like the blood of an unmutated human. From its clogged up, eyeless sockets the green gunk had turned turgid black, and slowly dripped down to its teeth like tears. It reminded the rider of those stillborn, half formed children that had been rejected by their mother's bodies. Death doubled over, clutching its skull in a scream it could not voice, and its whole body violently spasming, like its bones were being broken and reset one by one, over and over again. Finally, it lowered its arms. From its sodden green robed emerged bony green hands, and in those bony hands it held a long-barreled machine gun. It unhinged its jaw in a final, unheard scream, and pulled the trigger.

All the lingering pages of the Complacency flew to Rose, and formed a half-shell barricade just as the storm of bullets let loose. The blazing brakkabrakka of the arcane weapon drowned out the sound of the blaze, the sound of the dark rift, even the sound of thought. Pages of the rider's grimoire flew everywhere, and had the weapon's fire been concentrated it would have surely blown through. Its fire, however, was not. 

The figure of Death let the machine gun's kick direct its long barrel up in an arc, no longer caring what it destroyed, and once the gun pointed straight up, its skeletal head swiveled right around, and the gun's kick brought it right down upon the once and former clown. Just as the grimoire's screams couldn't be heard for its lack of voice, the troll's screams couldn't be heard for the voice of its gun. Gamzee yet stood, his whole body riddled with bullets, looked down upon his bleeding form, and shuddered. The polluted grimoire fell still.

Seeing her chance, Rose burst through her tome's defences and leapt at the troll. She struck him in the chest and drove both her needles right into his soft, yielding eye jelly. He hit the ground beneath with a thud, yet still writhed and struggled beneath her. He opened his mouth, surely to gasp some final word. 

Rose pressed the barrel of her Beretta against his forehead and pulled the trigger. The troll fell still, and forever silent. Purple blood pooled beneath his limp body. With a deep sigh, the rider stood.

It's thief-master slain, the tainted ~ATH grimoire collapsed like its remaining leg had been swept out from under it. It's polluted form oozed back into that of a graffiti’d tome, and with an unearthly shriek of the thing beyond it, the dark rift slammed shut. 

So that is it then, yes?

The rider holstered her handgun, and with a grunt yanked her needles out from the slain troll's eyes. The enchanted xenoflesh that covered her body became paper once more, returning to her grimoire and leaving her clad once more in her night clothes.

The folk of the hemovirus always were stubborn to expire, and from the color of his blood this one was of the most potent pure strain.

Fully reformed into an androgynous gray figure, Calmasis dusted off a green suit-sleeve and put the flintlock pistol away. 

This building is still conflagrated, I might add.

Rose looked about the burning church. it had lots its unnatural intensity that made it a pillar of flame, but the building was still alight nonetheless.

Let it burn. Let it burn and let it be this bastard's pyre.

Calmasis stepped idly to where the ~ATH book had fallen. 

What about this, do you think it can be cleansed?

Not likely I-

Rose turned, about to command her grimoire to destroy the tome, but froze at what she saw. Calmasis held ~ATH in one hand, and the tainted book had fallen open. Now that they weren't caught up in battle, she could see the grimoire hadn't just been sullied with random scribbles, but with words. Before she could parse even the first one, it's pages began to turn, faster and faster, its chromatic graffiti lighting up her genius loci's face. 

Tick.

Oh no.

Tock.

Calmasis, no! Shut it, quick!

The androgynous figure's eyes were wide and blind to all but the words flashing by on the pages. With stilted, halting voice, Calmasis spoke.

tick tock break heads honk honk. TICK TOCK BREAK HEADS HONK HONK! TICK! TOCK! BREAK! HEADS! HONK! HONK! HAA HAA! HEE HEE! HOO HOO! HAA HAA! HEE HEE! HOO HOO!

Haa haa, hee hee, hoo hoo, those were the wyrd words her brother had uttered, the words that had provoked their father into taking him away for whatever strange training had brought him back changed.

The ~ATH grimoire tore itself apart in Calmasis' hands, and as the androgynous figure doubled over in cacophonous laughter the polluted pages struck the genius loci one by one, penetrating and violating one after the other. Rose couldn't move. She had to get in there, find the offending pages and tear them out before they changed her grimoire permanently, but she could not move. Her feet did not obey her, nor did her hands or heart or mind. She could only watch. Watch as her creation was buried in layer upon layer of tainted paper. Watch as from under that swarming, painted white, behind the laughter, that born of her screamed out, and both spine and cover of the Complacency of the Learned were torn out and spat to her feet, like a nut shell or an apple core. 

HAA HAA! HEE HEE! HOO HOO! HAA HAA! HEE HEE! HOO HOO! Haa haa. Hee hee. Hoo hoo.

The familiar voice of her grimoire subsided into something strange. Something smooth and even that threatened to escape attention if you let it slip by your focus. The storm of paper subsided, and the last of the tainted pages found their place in the new creation. 

Where her Calmasis had stood before was now a different figure. The green suit was gone, replaced by a white one, the undershirt and bow tie a bright lime green. It held itself straight, arms behind its back and posture immaculate. Some height had been lost as well; where Calmasis had been written as a youth of sixteen or so, this new thing had the figure of an outright child. It's face though...it's face. The rider's eyes and mind ached but she still couldn't see its face. It was like the entire part of the universe around its head had been completely censored in a perfect sphere.

Calmasis?

It was a slim, foolish hope, that her beloved grimoire still retained enough of itself to retain its ego. At her feet, the emerald cover to Complacency of the Learned crumbled to dust.

That intelligence construct is dead, I am afraid. Or at least as dead and such things could ever be called alive. As for myself, you may call be Doc Scratch. The grimoire that houses my vast intelligence goes by the humble name of Scrap Book. In its own way fitting, don't you agree? As for the next bit, I do wish you wo-

Rose Lalonde stomped to the thing that had consumed her grimoire, eyes wet with tears, and clapped her hands either side of the white void that covered the thing's head. In an instant, the thing was a book again, held shut in her hands. Though it did not struggle, she held it tight, and with her scarf she fished out of her satchel a leather belt with which to bind it. Once the 'Scrap Book' had been belted shut- and it still just looked like the defaced ~ATH tome to her, that also stung- she shoved it to the bottom of her satchel and fled the burning church.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing a fight with fncysntakind was odd. Sure you can use it as a blunt instrument, but then why bother with just that? So I thought of someone throwing one to the ground in disgust, but it bouncing back and hitting them in the head instead. SO from there came the idea of Gamzee fighting by ricocheting this Zilly Santa around like a rubber ball, and it's not obvious what path it might take because of how weirdly shaped the statuette is.
> 
>  
> 
> The climax of this scene, and in part the broad plot of this fic was inspired by http://niconekoness.deviantart.com/art/Homestuck-Complacency-of-the-Learned-282189482


	5. An Apprentice Gained

John had asked precious few questions when she'd emerged from the burning church. Was the clown dead? Would no more imps come? Was the matter settled? That last one had been painful to answer, but it was nonetheless a truthful yes. What she didn't mention was the entirely new matter that had sprung up. Still, perhaps seeing her trouble if not understanding it, John had seen her back to her room at his house and left her to her own devices. 

Once inside and behind a shut door, Rose flung her satchel to the bed, sat down at the desk, and buried her face in her hands.

What was she to do? What was she to do? Her mind was too unfocused for her to perceive the fortuitous path, still caught in the simple fact of the loss of her grimoire. Of course she had brought more than one with her, but nothing she'd penned before had been as powerful or as versatile of the Complacency of the Learned. It had been her Magnum Opus, or so she'd thought. 

Are we past that step now?

Rose spun on her chair, eyes still moist. Doc Scratch sat on the bed, twirling the leather belt she'd bound Scrap Book with on one finger.

Oh this little thing?

Although the head was imperceptible, the twisting of the neck indicated Scratch had turned to look at the belt.

A fit and virile gentleman such as I could never actually actually be restrained by such crude methods, I merely went along with your intent in the spirit of cooperation.

Cooperation? You devoured my grimoire you cannibal.

She spat the word with as much venom as she could muster.

Come now, I could not have been described as I by that stage. It was not until the last of that genius loci expired that I recognized myself as I and did know myself. Or do you hold all organisms responsible for what the gametes they emerged from did?

The intelligence, the genius loci of the Scrap Book, Doc Scratch, he never broke his even tone or lost his smug self-satisfaction.

You sit here before me, you blank skulled midget, and you compare Calmasis born of mine mind to some mere ejaculate without even a hint of remorse?

She could feel her face growing hot with furiousness, and though both her wands and her gun were on the bed, she still had her scarf wrapped around her neck. Could she use it to properly arm herself before this 'Doc Scratch' could react?

Please, calm yourself miss Lalonde, and do not do anything hasty. I assure you I am much quicker on the draw than you could ever be. Do not take it personally of course, I am much faster than most things.

A crackle of energy ran down Scratch's form, followed by a flash of radiant green that made Rose Lalonde's blood turn cold.

That light, you're a devilbeast.

Indeed. A grimoire, and a devilbeast, and so much more.

He put one hand of his chest and bowed, as though introducing himself again.

I am something that is the product of many years efforts. I hold some of the greatest word ever uttered, and even things which aren't wyrd words can be fully described with letters one way or another. The words and codes that fill my pages are, and I say this not as boast but naked truth, unparalleled now gathered together. The combination of yours and that poor Mister Captor's grimoires was the final thing needed to provide me a stable existence. The perfect crucible for all that loyal Makara had gathered.

So this is all of it then? Every last thing that cursed clown did was to create you?

Though Scratch composure never faltered, Rose was starting to regain hers. The wetness had gone from her eyes and the ache in her heart subsided to a dull throb. 

Indeed, he and others. You should consider yourself fortunate. Until such time as I fulfill my purpose, I shall serve you to the very best of my ability. Unless you choose to end your life, and I will not stop you should you make that choice, you might be the only person in this planet's entire history that will receive that honor.

Is that so? You are a right efreeti then. Just what purpose might it be that you were created for?

I will summon a certain demon.

This made her laugh; a dry, humorless laugh only half voiced. Rose crossed her arms over her chest.

I'm afraid you are a few years too late. I've already bargained my soul off to other dark things.

Oh, your arrangement with the Noble Circle has no bearing on this. The demon I serve is not interested in such deals.

Rose narrowed her eyes at Scratch's perfectly still form.

Would you say this demon is evil?

Evil is a complex, tenuous word, one which perhaps I might have the pleasure of teaching to you in full. I believe you will not find the lesson unrewarding. However yes, this demon is a very cruel and evil man.

So why tell me all this? Why not lie, and trick me into helping you?

I never lie, Miss Lalonde. I may occasionally joke, but such misinformation that goes into them is brief by your or anyone's standards.

So what if I destroy you?

I would personally prefer you did not try, but you are welcome to it if you must. I can assure you that you will fail.

You certainly seem confident in your endurance. What if I were to make sure you failed at your task, and your demon never sets foot on this planet?

Again you are welcome to try, and I would still aid you to the best of my ability. I'd not tell you how it could be done, for one it is inevitable, but it would still be entertaining to watch you try.

So the final thing, if I were to die?

Then I would find some other willing magistrate, and I assure you there would be plenty. Many would do far more cruel things with my power than might ever cross your mind, though not necessarily so terrible.

Though she couldn't see it, Rose got the impression he was smiling.

You've got this all figured out, haven’t you?

Quite so. I was born with this plan fully formed in my brow. Or so I would say if I had a brow.

Was that one of your jokes?

Indeed. Harmless, and you can see. So what will it be, Rose Lalonde? Will you ride with the devil in white?

Rose closed her eyes. She wished she could say it was to consider it, but the truth be told she'd already made up her mind. By the gods, in that dark room, for one such as her she could hardly call it a choice at all.

Very well. I agree to not throw you in the garbage heap just yet, and to make scant use of your power as I see fit.

That, Miss Lalonde, is all I ask of you.

He lifted from the bed and gave another bow, then in a green flash was a book once more. Rose snatched the grimoire and tossed it back in her satchel like it was a sheet of hot metal, then dumped the bag on her desk.

Don't call us, we'll call you.

She voiced mockingly, then lay down on the bed and let sleep take her.

 

 

The following morning, when Rose descended still in her nightclothes on the off chance there might be breakfast before she set off, she once more found John standing at the foot of the stairs.

Good morning John.

This soon after rising, even if it was forever dark in these lands, Rose didn't care how unkempt her hair was, nor how revealing the nightclothes were -which, now that she thought about it, probably belonged to either Mr. Egbert's wife or mother. Getting her mind back on track, though, she did give the young man credit for keeping both eyes up top. Judging from the furrow in his brow it seemed whatever was on his mind was important.

Ah, there you are Ma'am. There was something I'd like to talk to you about.

If you call me Ma'am, I'll be forced to call you son, and who knows where that might take us. As for the something, there had right better be coffee among the morning's itinerary.

Oh, of course. Dad's in the kitchen now and he's probably already making some. I'll go check.

 

Rose sat down at the table, and when John returned he was carrying not only two cups of coffee, but also two plates heaped with bacon and eggs with mushrooms. She decided not to care at all that it was likely made from moles and lizards like everything in the town not mushrooms and shale. She gulped down a mouthful of coffee, not caring when it burned, and sat back to let the caffeine infused brew work its magic.

This is about, well, I'm not really sure how to start but,

I was planning on leaving today, if that factors into it.

Rose took another sip of coffee, then plucked up a particularly crispy bit of bacon to chew on.

Then I guess I'd better just say it then. I'm not that good of a magistrate. I'm half as good as Dad, and no offense to him, but he's not in the same park as Sassacre. I can only do what I do thanks to the power of the Daunting Text, and, well,

Typheus.

A part of Rose wished he would hurry along to what she figured the point was, but the rest of her was too weary to put effort into it. Far too much had happened last night.

So you noticed huh?

I've dealt with denizens myself. Though not like you did, I imagine.

The phantom smell of fish guts and sea water flared up in the rider's sinuses, and she tried to drown it in more coffee.

Yes, well, the point is, you see, it's about Casey, I was,

You were wondering if I could take her with me, give her the formal instruction you and your father never got so that she could then pass on her learning when the time comes to her without losing as much information as you fear.

She stopped herself rolling her eyes. There was nothing wrong with his concern, or his request. Indeed she'd suspected as much of him by the end of dinner the previous night, even looked forward in some way. However after Doc Scratch's explanation that Sollux's death and her chasing Gamzee had been but notes on the violin of his design, things being so easily predicted left a sour taste in her mouth.

Have you spoken to her about this yet?

She tried not to sound too sleepy when she asked. John shook his head.

She's still asleep. Last night really took a lot out of her.

Well, truth be told, after last night if you hadn't suggested it I would have. If left unchecked, she could cause a lot of harm with that word. Do you think she'll protest?

I don't think so. She's quite dazzled with you already and I'll explain it's just for a while, and she can come back once you think she's ready. That's something you'll probably know better than me anyway.

He scratched the side of his face sheepishly. Rose noticed that, despite his apparent good humor, the young man hadn't so much as touched his breakfast. She ate a piece of egg and spoke.

It will be a few years at least, depending on how fast she picks things up. It won't be comfortable, and though I'll do my best it won't be safe. I want you to understand that.

John paled, but didn't balk.

I know, I'd like nothing more than to keep her safe by my side. Like you said, though, that word in her head is too dangerous to do anything about, and I'm not sure I can help her with it fast enough. I'd go with you too, but this town needs me. The deal with Typheus, you know.

I can guess, and I appreciate that you're not giving your daughter away lightly. I agree to this arrangement.

She made no acknowledgement to the way his face lit up with hope and relief. Best to keep it all business-like.

I'll set off this afternoon, and I'll be heading East. Have Casey ready by then. She'll share my horse so only pack what's necessary. No point weighing us down. Do you have all of that, John?

Yup. I'll take care of it. You do whatever preparations you need and I'll make sure she'd ready when you are.

Good.

John held out his hand, and after a moment Rose shook it. Just like that she agreed to separate a child from her family. Well at least it wasn't up to her to convince the girl. That she had no idea how to approach. Her thoughts turned to Calmasis, and what the glib tome would have to say about such things, but such thoughts just left a hot pain in her heart. When she thought about that, it made the rider laugh. Her heart literally wasn't human, hadn't been for a long time, but it could still hurt like one. 

Rose at the rest of her breakfast in silence, then excused herself and returned to her room to prepare.

 

 

Some hours, and a trip into town later, and Rose Lalonde had finished saddling up Maplehoof out the front of the barn. From the front door of the house emerged Casey, with John close behind. Mr. Egbert stayed in the doorway, watching the whole thing with some elusive fondness only the fellow elderly could comprehend. John looked half a mess of unkempt hurry, but was smiling broadly. For her part, Casey seemed to be carrying the whole affair with quiet indignantly, dressed in a practical, if somewhat puffy blue dress

Now you be a good girl, alright?

Yes Daddy.

And you listen to what Miss Lalonde says.

Yes Daddy.

And never forget that you're an Egbert, and proud of it, and, and that your daddy loves you.

He openly cried before his daughter, and embraced her tightly.

Yes Daddy.

The slight hic in the little girl's voice did not go unnoticed by Rose, and for one moment she considered calling the whole thing off, and riding out before they had a chance to protest. She was a rider, an enigmatic, capricious stranger. She was allowed to do that. Yet all to quickly the fatherly embrace was broken, and Casey was by her side. With a voiceless sigh of resignation, Rose climbed atop her horse's saddle, then held out her hand to lift Casey up.

Goodbye Poppop, goodbye Daddy, I'll be back before you know it.

The girl flashed her wide, fishy grin and waved from the back of Rose's horse. and why not make a show of it, Rose thought.

Hold tight.

She muttered her instruction, and Casey grabbed hold of her waist securely. Just to be extra certain, Rose had her scarf curl in place behind the both of them to snatch the girl up the moment she started to fall. Once ready, she yanked on Maplehoof's rains and gave a shout.

Hiya!

Maplehoof reared on her hind legs, whinnying loudly, The silhouette of the horse and two riders stood stark against the light of the street torches behind them. Then the horse slammed back into the hard black stone and bolted into a dash. A fine exit indeed, Rose thought to herself. She glanced back at the satchel bag by her side. Sure enough, Doc Scratch had obliged her request not to emerge until called for. She was grateful for that. Better to not show before the new apprentice she was no longer certain she could command her grimoire.

 

 

Hey, um, Master?

Casey tugged gently at the rider's traveling robes. Rose let the sound of it roll around her head for a while before answering.

Just 'Rose' will suffice.

Rose, well, when we stop at the next town, and not that I'm in a rush or anything, but, when we do, can I buy some new clothes?

Rose turned to regard her blonde apprentice, looking the girl's blue dress up and down. As soon as she took her eyes off the road, Maplehoof slowed to a brisk trot. She'd been with the horse so long Maplehoof practically rode herself.

You don't like the dress?

Casey seemed to weigh up her answer with careful consideration. Finally, she settled on something she felt suitable.

It's...not me.

She spoke strongly, with full confidence that would explain everything. Rose laughed. She'd been young and in need to assert herself once. By all accounts she was still just a kid with authority problems. 

Alright then. We'll get you something a little more 'you'.

Rose idly wondered just how much of herself would 'happen' to show up in what Casey felt was more 'me' clothing.


End file.
